


names like pain cries, names like tombstones

by orphan_account



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Catra (She-Ra) Redemption, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, F/F, On Hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25096045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Adora loses her memory after an injury she receives during battle. Stranded in the Fright Zone, she has to figure out what she is doing here, and what happened between her and Catra.*ON HIATUS*
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from richard siken's poem: saying your name

Fighting her way back to consciousness is an upwards struggle. An engine hums under her chest and she can feel the vibrations absorbed by the floor -- she must be in a vehicle, though why she is there is beyond her. She cannot recall the circumstances that led up to this moment, nor can she recall anything else. 

The realization is enough to jolt her upwards, purely through the use of the muscles in her stomach and back. Her hands are tied, which she realizes when she tries to move them; layers and layers of binding that abuse her swollen wrists. She knows she must be a captive by the way she is tied. There is precision and dedication, in the multitude of knots that encase her joints. Clearly her captors are taking extra precautions. They must know her well, or consider her a threat. 

She attempts to strain against the ropes for several minutes. They do not give; she stops trying after a while and falls back against the floor. The impact, though minimal, sends a spike of pain through her skull; she must have hit it, which explains her memory loss. Traumatic head injuries and amnesia are connected, even if she has not forgotten everything. She remembers things, facts, and her instincts bite at her like teeth. But she cannot recall personal experiences. Who she is, how she got here . . . those are mysteries without the proper tools to be solved.

  
  


She doubts she will be able to escape. The inside of the vehicle is darker than behind her eyelids, and when she brings her hands up, she cannot see their silhouette. Her best bet is to wait until she discovers where she is going, and then make a plan from there. She is confident that once she regains her memories, she will know what to do.

The vehicle continues on and she loses track of the passage of time. Hours, maybe days even, pass before the door swings open and light floods through.

“There she is,” says a voice.

She turns toward the noise, but the light is so achingly bright, so stark against the blackness of the room that she cries out in instead and angles her face towards the floor. There is laughter, an amused, calloused sound, and then the sound of footsteps. Someone has knelt beside her.

“Hey, Adora.”

Adora. So that is her name. She waits until her eyes adjust, and then lifts her head towards her captor-- a woman, around eighteen, with different colored eyes and dark hair. She is beautiful in a way that makes Adora ache before it makes her terrified, because they should not be meeting like this. In a different world, it was not like this.

A memory pushes at the base of her mind.

“Anything to say?” Her captor has knelt next to her. Now she reaches out to pull a gag from Adora’s mouth, joy evident in her expression. Clearly she and Adora must have had history between them, a long lasting feud. “No, ‘I won’t let you get away with this’? No ‘what are you doing’?”

“That’s . . . that’s not it.” Adora’s voice is rusty, and a little strangled. She must have been screaming earlier, or she has been out for longer than she thought. “Who . . who are you? What the hell am I doing here? And why am I tied up?”

Silence. The woman tilts her head and begins to laugh.

“Oh, Adora,” she says finally, when she manages to speak. Adora has shrunk away from her, but the woman leans in, close enough so that their noses touch. “I won’t fall for your tricks. You really think I’m that stupid?”

  
“I don’t know,” grates out Adora, “because I don’t remember you. Who are you? What am I doing here?”

Someone else has appeared at the entrance. It’s another woman, maybe a bit older, with short white hair and scorpion pincers. 

“Catra,” she says, sounding uncertain. “I think she’s telling the truth.”

“No,” snarls the woman.  _ Catra _ , Adora realizes, putting two and two together. “It’s just a stupid mind game so that she can escape.”

“You really think I can escape with these bonds?” Adora spits back. “What did I do?”

Catra starts laughing again. There is something wild about it, high pitched and not exactly stable, that makes the hairs on Adora’s arms stand on end. She needs to escape, she needs to get away, but Catra closes the distance and puts her hands on Adora’s shoulders, pulling them so they’re face to face. She’s still laughing, but it’s bitter, and Adora feels something like recognition that’s gone as quickly as it comes.

“What did you do?” Catra repeats. “Adora. You left me.”

Her hands fall away.

***

Adora is taken inside what is called the Fright Zone. The white haired woman--who introduces herself as Scorpia--carries her with one hand, while Catra walks ahead of them. She seems to be holding a sword.

“Let me go,” hisses Adora. She’s wearing the gag again; Catra had put it back after her initial shock. “You can’t do this!”

“Sorry,” says Scorpia. She seems apologetic, but not enough so to actually release Adora; her hold lessens, though, and she offers a smile. “We captured you, fair and square.”

_ “Fair?” _

“Yeah, okay, you’re right. It really wasn’t fair. It was an ambush, but my wildcat was getting desperate.” Scopria shrugs, pauses, then looks up and blinks at her. “Do you really not remember anything?”

There is a surprising amount of concern in the words. Adora yells, “No!” and is given a strange look by one of the passing men--cadets, she thinks, though how the term comes to her she has no idea. 

“What happened?” she says again and lowers a voice. “Why can’t I remember?” 

“Well, there was a battle. You got hit defending a friend. The blow knocked you out, and you transformed back to Adora. The rest is history.” 

Scorpia speaks like the words are weighted, an effort to push out through clenched teeth. They’re not quite apologetic, but not entirely triumphant--words of a woman who has been worn out by a lifestyle like the elbows of a shirt. It must have not been her choice to work for the Horde, Adora thinks; she wonders if she can use this to her advantage.

“What do you mean by ‘transformed’?”

“So you don’t remember anything, then.” They’re reached two large metal doors. The cadets in armour step aside, letting them through.

Adora grits her teeth. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! Why does Catra want to capture me?”

“I . . .” Scorpia hesitates, face pained. “That’s Catra’s story to tell. You guys have a lot of history between you.”

“I can tell.” The words are bitter. She sighs and asks, “so, where are we anyways?”

“Fright Zone,” Scorpia answers. “Home of the Horde. It used to be my kingdom, but we gave it up to Hordak. Some gesture of peace or whatnot, but--”

“Hordak?” repeats Adora. The word sounds familiar, and she tries it out, weighing each syllable. “Is he the leader around here?”

“Yeah. And my wildcat is second in command.”

“Wildca . . .  _ oh _ , you mean Catra.” Adora grimaces; Catra doesn’t seem like the nickname type, doesn’t seem anything-type, actually, except for maybe unnerving her. “Do I know him?”

“Hordak? Yeah, totally, you worked for him when--”

“Scorpia!” yells Catra from up ahead. “Stop talking with the prisoner.” It is less a request than it is a demand. Catra seems to be the type who expects her friends, associates, to do as she requests. She has stopped walking to glare at them; Adora tries to match her gaze head on while Scorpia flushes, drops her head to look away. At least one of them should be able to stand up to Catra, who just scowls and adds, “we don’t want to give her any information.”

“Yup, sorry boss.” Scorpia clears her throat and grabs Adora’s shoulders. Satisfied, Catra continues.

Adora waits under she’s far enough away, before saying, “what the hell was that?”

A muttered, “Huh?” is all she gets in response. They’ve entered a wide, long room filled by twisted pipes and black curls of smoke. Cadets run through the halls, some in armour and some without. What is most surprising, however, is the various green machinery that seems to grow from the walls like some sort of vine. It’s a place of parts, scraped together, like a patchwork quilt, and Adora shivers without meaning too. She’s been here before, she knows she has--but when she tries to grasp at the details, they slide through her fingers like sand.

“You . . .” She swallows, turns to Scorpia. “You can’t just let her treat you like that! It’s awful!”

“It wasn’t anything. And she still cares.” Scorpia sounds almost fond; Adora’s anger lessens, replaced by a different sort of rage, sharp and brittle, that feels almost like sadness.

“I don’t get how you’re friends with her.”

“You of all people should understand how.”

_ But I don’t _ , Adora wants to say.  _ Because I can’t remember, and it’s right at the tip of my tongue _ . But she doesn’t voice it. She only asks, “huh? What do you mean?”

  
“Adora,” says Scorpia, “you and Catra grew up together. You were in the Horde.”

Adora doesn’t respond, just looks around her, numb with a dull shock. The words, combined with the familiar, disorienting setting, seem to click into place, and she freezes, gasps out, “we were! I--” 

_ “Remember?” _

“No, not quite.” Adora exhales, unable to describe it. Her mind still feels blank and inaccessible, but she knows the Fright Zone is a place she has been to, just as she knows where her hands are without looking at them; the recognition because it is part of your body, part of you. She can feel it underneath her skin like some sort of splinter, throbbing and grating, though she strains for it, unable to extract the shard of memory. 

“I’ve been here. I just can’t remember when. Or how.” Scorpia doesn't have the chance to respond to that. They’ve entered a wide, dark room filled with pipes and machines and glowing green vats. The whole atmosphere has a feeling of wrongness. Adora suppresses a shudder; she feels like she is not supposed to be here, is intruding on something she should not.

Her response is mirrored in the others. Scorpia has become tense behind her, and Catra squares her shoulders and seems to draw herself up. She looks confident, but Adora knows that she is apprehensive. It is evident in the way she tries to make herself taller, familiar from a childhood of--

Of what? 

She can’t remember. It's enough to make her groan.

“Is Hordak here?” Catra says. 

Pipes clunk in response. A head pops up from behind a machine, followed by whirling tendrils of purple hair. It is a girl, around Adora’s age, recorder in one hand. She seems familiar too; Adora strains and strains but cannot remember why.

“No. He’s out.” The girl seems to notice them finally, and her eyes widen in comical surprise. “Hi Catra! Oooh, and Adora--what are  _ you _ doing here?”

“I don’t know.” Adora has managed to spit out the gag; she glances around, wary for reasons she doesn't know. The hairs on her arms stand up, and her heart beats so fast she is almost dizzy. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Excuse me?”

“This . . . this is isn’t right.” Adora closes her eyes and tries to think. The girl, with her purple hair and cheerful voice, doesn’t fit into the picture she has in her mind. She shouldn’t be here. “I--I don’t know who you are, but you need to run?”

“Run? Why would I run?” The girl seems confused. She raises her arms and whirls to the machines. “The technology is amazing here! I’ve made so many advances with my experiments--”

“Entrapta,” snaps Catra. “Focus.” She sounds like she is used to saying this; Adora has to suppress a smirk.

“Fine. But why is Adora here? Ooh, can I have her sword?” 

Strands of Entrapta’s hair reach out towards the weapon the Catra has slung over her shoulder. Catra simply steps back, tightening her hold, and says, “no. Where’s Hordak? We can--”

“He’s out,” repeats Entrapta. Their conversation fades into static, and Adora stares at the sword. 

“That’s mine.”

“What?”

“That’s mine.” She doesn’t look at Catra or Entrapta, just keeps her eyes on the weapon. Adora doesn’t know where the words come from, but her hands twitch, and she can practically feel it, how the sword would fit into her fingers, cold and smooth and  _ right _ . 

“Guess you broke your little charade.” Catra drags one finger down the hilt, then turns to Entrapta. “She says she can’t remember anything, but--”

“That’s because I can’t,” Adora snaps. She’s straining toward the sword; she forces herself to stop, draw herself up straighter. “But I know it’s mine.”

“She can’t remember anything? How fascinating!” Entrapta flings herself to Adora’s side. Strands of her hair hold up various tools, all on, whirring, and Adora edges backwards. “You wouldn’t mind holding still, for a moment?”   
  


“We aren’t going to cut her open!” Catra screeches. “Turn those off!”

Entrapta does as she’s told. Adora sighs and then squints at Catra, whose eyes are wide, one hand stretched out, frozen in place. She seems to collect herself a moment later, scowling at Adora without meeting her gaze, but that doesn’t erase what Adora has seen.

Catra, concerned for her.

“Can you build something to see if she’s telling the truth?” Catra seems to realize how this sounds, because she turns and bares her teeth. “This is not because I like you, Adora.”

“Okay.”   
  


“It--it isn’t!” Catra looks fluster. Adora doesn’t know what it is about the statement that makes her smile, maybe the feeling of recognition she gets from the words, like something clicking into place. Or the surprise and shock she felt after Catra’s concern, like a punch to the stomach, or the dull adrenaline of the situation suddenly coming to life. But she cracks a smile, wide and wild and giddy, and something in Catra’s face seems to stutter to a stop.

“I can think of a simpler test,” Entrapta goes on, obvious to the tension in the room. She has reached for the sword while Catra is distracted, and holds it now, flipping it back and forth. “Adora, heads up!”

She flings the weapon at her. Scorpia yelps and leaps to the side, but Adora stays where she is. She can follow the trajectory of a weapon, knows it like she knows her own body, and the moment before it hits the ground, she sweeps a hand out and grabs it by the hilt.

At the moment of contact, something electric goes through her, hot and electric and energizing, and she can feel every fiber of herself become supercharged. This is hers, this is  _ right,  _ in a way that she knows but can’t explain. She holds it breathing hard, while the others stare at her. The moment is weighted; she feels like something incredible should happen, like a blast of light.

The weapon stays still. Adora shakes it a few times. 

“That’s it?”

Catra laughs. “Now that’s the Adora I know.” 

“The one without her memories,” Entrapta agrees. “Does this mean I can have the sword?”

“Sure. Have a blast.” A strand of Entrapta’s hair stretches out and wrestles the blade from Adora’s hand. Adora grabs at it, but it’s too late.

“Hey!” she yells. “That’s mine!”

“You’re technically our prisoner,” says Catra, shrugging. “Don’t worry. Entrapta won’t hurt it.”

This is followed by a jab to Entrapa’s ribs. The inventor looks up, and then nods her head.

“A piece of technology like this? I would never!”

“Good to know someone has their priorities,” Adora snarks. It’s barely a whisper, but Catra hears anyways, flicking her a smile, and something warm and acknowledging goes through Adora’s chest. 

They gaze at each other for several moments before Scorpia coughs, says, “um, great? So where does Adora go? We can’t keep her in here. Do we give her your old bed, or--”

At the word bed, Catra stiffens. 

“No,” she snaps. Her voice is tight and cold; alien from the smiling woman she was moments ago.

“Take her to the cell.”

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thank you SO MUCH for being interested in this and for your kind words. i'm gonna try to update this at least once a week.

Adora spends at least half an hour trying to find ways to get out of the cell. She scours each corner, bangs on the walls, and tries every method she can think of to get the energy-door to collapse. Unsurprisingly, none of it works, and after several failed attempts, she finally collapses to the floor. Saying she’s exhausted would be putting it lightly; her body aches in a hundred different ways, and she can feel bruises on her ribs and back. She doesn’t know when and where she got them, which scares her--because up until now, at least her body has felt like her own. Even if she can’t remember anything, she has her instincts and she trusts her gut. The panic hasn’t set in yet. 

She can stay alive.

But it’s so much more difficult to believe after she peels her jacket back--a torn, red thing that feels familiar--to examine her wounds. There are bruises scattered across her ribs in an ugly twist of purple, and scars on her arms. Knicks cover her hands, and she can feel the deep gashes along her back, bruises over cuts over scars. Her whole body is one giant ache, and she doesn’t know where she is. The thought is enough to send her over the knife’s edge she’s been toeing for the last few hours; Adora moves back, throws her head to the side and begins to _laugh_.

She does so until her throat aches and she can’t breath, and then turns to sobbing just as quickly, trembling with adrenaline and panic and barely able to see through the static in her eyes. Her shoulders shake like they’re about to snap in half and Adora wonders, somehow, if her bones are shaking too. If maybe she can hear them: hear herself dislodging right then and there, like the ruins of a shipwreck in a storm. Something already fragile and bruised falling to pieces--but she’s not broken. Not yet. 

Adora pulls out her jacket, wipes at her face, and then balls it up into a cushion. She curls up in the back of the cell, too exhausted to move after crying, and falls asleep almost instantly. She doesn’t dream, which is a relief, but when she wakes up her head is full of half formed images that buzz like static.

She sees a girl with pink hair and a boy with a bow; bright light around her hands as she touches a sword. She sees a meeting room and a table full of battle plans; her face but with longer hair and molten blue eyes.

And then she sees Catra. 

The other woman is in front of Adora, one hand outstretched, out of place where she stands in the middle of a village that is full of blood and fire. She says, ‘come with me’, and Adora says ‘no’, and they can hear something between them shatter; fall to ruins like the same town they’re in. Adora runs and Catra follows, and then they’re five again, playing a game of tag. 

And then the image _shatters_ , and she leaps up, gasping for air.

What the hell was that?

Adora doesn’t have any way of knowing. The memories--or what she assumes are memories--are gone just as fast, leaving her head full of static, and she breathes hard through her hose in the hopes that it will go away.

Little by little, the feeling begins to ease. It’s not lessened completely--the air in front of her still bends and fizzles in black and white patches, drifting up like bubbles in sparkling water--but enough so that she can see through it, and sweat drips down her back like braids. 

She feels as if she is a magnet being pulled by something greater, which is perhaps what prompts her to stand up and walk to the other side of her cell, inches away from the barrier of energy that divides her from freedom. The view yields stories of cells just like it, hanging platforms and machinery as means of getting around. It’s the same brand of unnamable familiarity, and Adora is about to go back before she notices what is different. She stares, breath punching out from her throat.

Catra is outside her door.

She’s sleeping. Her arms are folded up, serving as a cushion for her chin, and she wears the same clothes as yesterday, but with her hair loose. It makes her look older, somehow. Adora dislikes it in a way she doesn’t want to analyze, so she focuses on Catra again, curled up into a ball on the floor.

She looks sharp but vulnerable, and Adora feels something like fondness flush through her before she strangles it down. This woman captured her. She doesn’t have time for the feelings her old self had.

She needs to focus on escape, or she should, but she finds herself lowering to the ground instead, palm open inches away from the cell door. 

“Catra?” 

It’s quiet enough that it shouldn’t rouse her, but Catra startles anyways, scrambling up to her feet. She looks confused for a moment, but her eyes land on Adora, and her face hardens.

“What?” she snaps, stepping back. 

“Were you there all night?” Adora says. Catra protests, but her movements are stiff enough to indicate that she’s spent several hours on the ground. Adora waits until she goes silent, and then asks, “why?”

She doesn’t expect Catra to answer, but the other woman just sighs.

“It was--it was a thing, okay? We did it when we were younger. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“We did it before I left,” says Adora. Catra’s silence is enough of an answer, and she shifts, suddenly uncomfortable in her skin. “Oh. I . . .”

“Whatever,” Catra says at last. “Anything else you wanna bother me with?”

“Why now?” Adora tries to meet her eyes. “If you hate me for leaving, why are you here?”

“I don’t--” Catra looks like she’s tearing herself in two directions. Her hands fist and clench, muscle in her jaw ticking; a magnet being repelled, shoving itself apart. Finally she lets out a broken exhale and turns around, slumping with her back to the screen. Adora does the same, and then they’re back to back, separated by a curtain of crackling green energy. “I never hated you, Adora,” she says. It echoes between them, inside Adora’s bones.

“Did I know that?”

“I--” Another broken breath. “I should hate you,” Catra says at last, instead of answering Adora’s question. “But _you_ left me. It’s all _your_ fault.”

“Then why did I leave?” Adora says, frustrated.

Catra doesn’t answer this either. She stays silent for so long Adora begins to wonder if she’s left, before she sighs and says, “it was hard sleeping in the Horde. You let me sleep at the base of your bed. We were around seven at the time. Shadow Weaver--” Her voice cracks. “--Shadow Weaver _hated_ it. But I couldn’t sleep otherwise.”

Another silence, longer than the last. 

“After you left I couldn’t sleep again.” Catra’s voice barely is barely a whisper, but the words twist inside Adora anyways, pity and anger and a crippling-like concern, which she feels at, worries between her fingers like a well worn blanket. After a moment, she stops trying to find threads, holes, and settles into it instead, a confusion she thinks she must be well acquainted with.

They’re both silent. But the space between them feels warmer, at least until Catra adds, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s not because I like you.”

“You made that clear,” Adora huffs. 

“Yeah, well, you’re my prisoner. I don’t have to like you.” She can hear Catra stand--almost silently, but Adora’s listening for the tellate rustle that means Catra is on her feet. “I’ll bring you in for interrogation later. I have duties. Force Captain duties.”

“Good for you,” Adora says, suddenly furious. She rises to her feet as well, bangs one fist against the wall. It makes her knuckles ache, but she’s thrumming with a sudden destructive energy that makes her want to _hurt--_ not Catra, but maybe herself. “You know, that never meant anything!”

“Of course it did. You trained your whole life for this.” Catra wears a smirk again. She must be hurt though, because her fingers curl, once, twice, and Adora’s do the same, an unconsciousness gesture that leaves her feeling like she’s been falling for miles.

The anger fades just like that, and she slumps against the wall. “I didn’t mean me,” Adora says. “You--” 

_You_ what? What was she going to say?

“I don’t know. But don’t do this.” Adora presses her hands against the cell door. “You can let me go. We can be good. 

“We can be friends again,” is what she adds without thinking, and then pauses.

She expects Catra to laugh, or get angry, but the other woman looks tired instead, like she’s a cloth collecting water, weighed down.

“Adora,” she says slowly. “I don’t know if we can.”

“There’s always hope.” 

“Easy for you to say,” Catra scoffs. She moves to leave, tail twitching furiously. Adora throws herself at the door, suddenly desperate not to be alone.

“I’m sorry!” she yells. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry! Don’t go!”

But Catra has already vanished.

***

She doesn’t know how many hours she spends in the cell until someone comes to drag her out. It’s a boy and a girl, around her age--both in the standard uniforms she’s seen so far. The boy is pale and skinny, and the girl scowls like she’s getting paid for it. Both of them regard her for a moment before the girl pulls out a pair of bindings and a taser. Adora tenses as the screen goes down, but then runs.

The girl is there before she can cross the threshold. She swings her taser into Adora’s back, and Adora goes down, hitting the floor with a thud. Electricity crackles through her body, and she shakes, nerves on fire. Her skin is too hot and tight, and she feels like each fieber of her body has been shot through with liquid heat, an energy that she shakes through as her limbs spasms on the ground. Handcuffs snap around her wrists a moment later and a girl laughs, crackling in her ears like static.

“Nice try, Adora.” The voice has a strange lilt to it, one Adora remembers. “Guess your time with the rebellion hasn’t been doing any favors.”

“The rebellion?” Adora repeats. Her mouth tastes coopery. She thinks she's bit her lip.

“Oh yeah, Catra said you forgot. Remember my name?" There is a leer evident in her voice; Adora doesn’t have to see her to know it’s happening.

“I--” The name comes to Adora in a sudden moment of clarity. “Lonnie,” she says, rolling onto her side. “And . . . um . . .”

“Kyle,” the boy supplies. “It’s okay, though. I’m pretty forgettable. Catra said--”

“Catra said not to interact with the prisoner,” Lonnie snaps, lifting the taser like she’s considering using it on Kyle as well. “Now come on! Help me get her up.”

They each slip an arm around her shoulders and drag her to her feet. She feels heavy, but not as bad as she did a minute ago; the sensation has passed, replaced with a dull throb. 

“Remind me why we have to do all the heavy lifting?” groans Kyle as they struggle to get Adora out the door. She makes herself go limp, trying to slow them down.

“It’s _Catra_ ,” snarls Lonnie. “After you left, she became such a hardass.”

“Did we know each other?” Adora says. “Not me and Catra--me and you?”

“Yeah.” Kyle shrugs. The motion sends Adora tumbling to the floor, but she’s ready for it this time, landing in a roll and leaping up to sprint. Lonnie sweeps her foot under Adora’s legs before she can get further than three feet, and Adora falls again.

“Stop it,” she snaps, pulling Adora up. “And Kyle?”

“Sorry,” Kyle says, holding his hands up. “I didn’t mean to!”

“I know. Let me answer the questions from now on.” 

They’ve somehow made it halfway down the ledge. Lonnie hits a button and the floor begins to move downwards--a platform, Adora realizes, glancing over the side.

“Look,” she says finally, “I’m still hazy on what happened. It’s not my fault I can’t remember, right?”

“I guess.” Lonnie doesn’t waver. “You left us, though.”

“And I’m sorry. But if we really were friends, then at least tell me what I’m going to be up against. And what’s going on.”

Kyle and Lonnie exchange glances. Finally, Lonnie says, “a war’s been going on in Etheria.”

“A war?”

“Yeah. Keep up. There’s the Horde--” Lonnie makes a sweeping motion with one hand. “--which is us. And then there’s Rebellion. They’re all a bunch of princesses and goody two shoes’, and you ran off to them a while ago.”

“But why?” Adora says. “If I grew up here, if--”

“No one knows why you left!” Lonnie says. “You had everything. Do you understand how selfish you were? How stupid? You tore this place apart.”

“Maybe for a good reason!” Adora yells, straining towards her. Kyle watches the two of them, looking like he’d rather fling himself off of the moving platform than endure this conversation. “If I left it couldn’t have been that good! What did we do?”

“You had friends here!” Lonnie screams. “You had Catra, and our cadets, and--” Her face hardens, and she turns away. 

“Kyle,” Lonnie says at last, measured. “If she talks again, taze her. If she runs, taze her again.”

“Okay,” Kyle says, shuddering. Adora scowls at him, disgusted, but keeps her mouth shut.

They go down a series of tunnels. The crowd parts for them, eyes of cadets and captains alike following Adora as she thrashes back and forth. She can’t do anything else for fear of being tasered, but it works to stall Lonnie and Kyle, who have to stop several times to readjust their grip. Still, when they reach a pair of metal doors, Adora knows her plan has failed.

“Prisoner for Hordak,” says Lonnie, to the guards who stand outside. They move aside, and the doors slide open, giving a way to a long dark room. Adora can barely see through it, but her neck prickles, every hair standing on end.

She shouldn’t be here, knows it even if she doesn’t know why, and in one last ditch attempt to escape, she thrashes free and starts to run. She barely makes it five feet before a taser slams into her skull, the force from the metal and electricity causing her to fall to her knees. Distantly, she can hear Lonnie laughing, and a voice that sounds familiar, saying something like ‘what have you done’.

She can’t move, and it terrifies her, but it doesn’t matter, because she’s being dragged forward anyways. Someone kneels forward and touches her face--a woman, masked and cloaked in robes the same color as blood. Darkness ripples from her like ink in water, and Adora feels a pang of fear shoot through her, so intense that she forgets to breathe.

  
  


“Adora, my dear,” the woman says. “Welcome home.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edits have been made as of July 18. next chapter should be coming in five days? it'll be longer than this one--i'm gonna aim for twice the word count


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes: set sometime around season one, the beacon. i'm kinda experimenting with canon here.
> 
> i am so so sorry for the late update! this chapter is also kinda short but I just wanted to post it. POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING--go to the end if you're concerned

Adora doesn’t move. She wants to; the very touch of the woman’s hand makes her skin prickle, crawling like it’s tearing itself apart. But she doesn’t know who this is and her mind is still hazy--so she stays silent, not wanting to anger a potential threat.

“She doesn’t remember.” The woman isn’t speaking to her; she’s looking over her shoulder, at some of the cadets. “And you have proof?”

“Something about the sword.” Lonnie appears next to the woman. She looks just as uncomfortable as Adora does, body curving to avoid proximity. “Catra didn’t say much, but it’s obvious. Adora doesn’t have a clue who we are”

“Insolent child,” the woman snaps. “I should have known nothing would be different, even with Adora around. Catra is still a selfish, lazy--”

“Hey.”

Adora has no idea what prompts her to speak up, but she does anyway, shaking her head from the woman’s grasp. The moment her hand is gone, her mind instantly feels clearer; she takes a deep breath, trying to think.

The woman must know her and Catra personally. It is obvious by the way that she speaks--and her words of choice--that while she has a vendetta against Catra, she seems less ill-tempered towards Adora herself, evident in the way her voice softens and how she touches Adora’s cheek. In some ways, that’s even worse; Adora doesn’t want the woman anywhere near her, practically fills with a sense of dread at the thought of it. But she has her attention now, so she can only take a deep breath and carry on.

“I--” _Distract her. Keep her mind off Catra._ The thought comes so suddenly, she almost jolts upright with the sensation of it--only her body isn’t reacting, lethargic and slowed down with the terror she is experiencing. Adora is thankful for it. She tries again. 

“I don’t remember you.” 

The woman makes a low sound of disapproval. “I raised you, Adora. I taught you everything you need to know and this--”

“She’s Shadow Weaver,” Lonnie intertups. She looks at Adora with something like sympathy. “She’s Lord Hordak’s second--well, third in command. Catra replaced her after her whole failure to capture you.”

“I am still your superior,” Shadow Weaver hisses. “I will not tolerate such disrespect.”

“I didn’t mean anything!” Lonnie holds up her hands. They shake slightly, and she looks every which way, as if scanning for the escape routes. Something clicks into place.

Adora knows this. Adora _remembers_.

And so she _moves_.

Her body was numb and unresponsive a moment ago, but adrenaline comes over her like a hot flash. Just like that, it’s like a dam breaking, like something snapping inside of her: she pulls her hands, which are still bound, towards her chest, and throws her momentum forward into a roll. She grunts at the impact but still lands crouched, before shoving a hand against the floor to push herself up.

She is standing now, between Lonnie and Shadow Weaver. Everyone has gone silent.

The movements are something she experienced in a second hand way. She acted on purely instinct alone, body knowing the course of action, Adora only conscious of her movements as if they were detached from her, an out of body experience. This though: Shadow Weaver’s hand extended out, Lonnie breathing hard behind her--this she is aware of, blood hot and bright in her veins.

“Adora?” someone says.

She doesn’t move.

Shadow Weaver is the first to step back, something like shock on what is visible of her face. The tendrils of darkness expanding from her fingers recede, and she tilts her head, as if considering. Adora raises her bound wrists in reflex and breathes hard. She feels oddly energized. The adrenaline did not wear her out, leave her tired from the sudden burst of activity: it has made her harsher, brighter, stark like the sharp edges of glass. The scene becomes clear in front of her, and something clicks into place. 

She's been here before. She’s done this.

So it’s only reflex that when she turns, she says, “are you alright, Catra?” because her body knows the words the same way it knows the movements. 

Except it is not Catra behind her. It is Lonnie.

She stumbles back.

(Her heartbeat is surprisingly slow. Too slow, maybe. It echoes in her throat, which is tighter than normal. The contrast is jarring to her limbs, which are tingling and hot, shot through with adrenaline like she’s breathing it instead of air. Her vision is blurry too; she wonders if she’s crying.)

“Adora.”

She is shoved to the ground.

Hands curl around her shoulders and slide various restraints around her wrists. She can’t see it but she can feel the metal, so cold it’s almost burning. Her forehead is bleeding. She blinks the blood out of her eyes.

“Bring her to the Black Garnett,” says Shadow Weaver from behind her. “We must examine her memories. She must retain some knowledge.”

“I don’t remember anything,” Adora says. The words come out sluggish. “Where are you--wait, hey!”

She is hoisted up. Her vision is still blurry, but she can feel her knees being dragged along the pavement; they must be taking her to the place Shadow Weaver mentioned--the Black Garnett. 

Something about the name is vaguely familiar, but the moment she tries to grasp at it, it falls apart under her fingers, unfolds like a piece of origami. She knows she’s been there but she can’t remember when, why. Or what about it is causing her chest to rack with shudders, the only responsive part of her body apart from her heart. It beats fast enough to mark the seconds, but otherwise she is still, body a failing system. Her limbs are still when she tries to get them to move.

There is no escape. They turn a corner, Adora falling limply into one of the guards. Shadow Weaver is in front of them, though her walk resembles more of a glide: everything about it is enough to make the hairs on Adora’s arms stand on end. She can’t move though, just lets herself be dragged despite how much her body protests, until they come to a stop in front of a door. 

There are no guards--the first sign that something is off. Shadow Weaver places a hand to it and it slides open, revealing a shadowed room. The only light comes from a crystal in the center, twice Adora’s height and glowing red. There are pipes connecting to it that lead into the floor and walls, and it pulses a light that stains her hands in a blood-like glow.

Adora shivers. Her neck feels cold and exposed.

“Attach her to the Black Garnet,” Shadow Weaver says. 

She is moved towards the crystal in the middle of the room. The closer they get to it, the worse she feels, until her skin is a livewire, body a nerve cut open and exposed. Her head is shoved into the black garnett and a sensation passes through her--not electricity, exactly, but the same soft of shock. It feels darker. Leaves her cold and shivering clean through. The guards hold her to it while they wrap long metal cables around Adora until she is tied, back against the crystal. The bindings press into her shoulders and forehead, her chest and legs. She can’t move.

No. She needs to get out.

Adora thrashes, barely jostling the bindings. Every instinct she has screams _out,_ which is the only reason she doesn’t collapse--she needs to get out of here, she needs to run, _run, run_. Her throat is a chokehold; only a strangled ‘help’ forces its way out.

Shadow Weaver looks at her and makes a fond noise. Adora tastes bile in the back of her mouth. 

“We can reset your memories like this. You will have no recollection of the Rebellion. I can implant an illusion of a fake childhood--”

“Bitch,” Adora hisses. Her eyes sting with tears.

Shadow Weaver’s eyes narrow and she moves toward Adora. When she touches her face, Adora recoils backward, throws her head from side to side. Anything to avoid contact.

“We can be happy again,” says Shadow Weaver.

“I can never be happy with sometimes you,” Adora screams. She bites down on Shadow Weaver’s hand and almost gags. Shadow Weaver draws away.

“Insolent child. After we’re done--”

She cuts herself off, breathes hard. Adora shakes. “Stay still or this will hurt.”

“Fuck you,” she spits. Shadow Weaver places both hands on the Black Garnett and takes a deep breath. The room instantly darkens--or maybe that is Adora’s vision. Everything sways back and forth in front of her, doubles and combines.

And then she feels it. A shot of electricity, straight through her head, searing behind her temples. Shadow Weaver grunts beside her. Adora screams.

And then--

\--and then it’s gone. 

Adora freezes, looks to her left. She doesn’t feel any different, but it could be that it’s still working. She needs to get out of here--

“What are you doing?” Shadow Weaver hisses. She holds her hands up--away from the Black Garnett. It’s enough to make Adora sob; a broken, choked sound that slices through her, gratefulness and thick relief. She follows Shadow Weaver’s eyes to the door, shoved open, where a thin sliver of light dissects the room like a blade.

It is Catra. She came back.

“Get away from her,” Catra hisses. 

She launches herself at Shadow Weaver, and the two of them collide.

Shadow Weaver doesn’t even have time to react before Catra is on top of her, tumbling across the room. Catra lands with her hands in Shadow Weaver’s robes, and then twists downwards, bringing her face towards the floor. There is a loud crack as Shadow Weaver hits it, before Catra leaps on top of her, unsheathes her claws and scratches. She repeats the moment--twist, slam, scratch--until Shadow Weaver’s form goes limp on the floor.

Adora puts her head back. She sobs; she shakes.

“Adora!” Catra yells, and then runs to her side. She carefully slices open Adora’s bindings, and then kneels to the ground. Her arms are extended, and Adora falls into them. She is too terrified and exhausted to care. 

“Adora,” Catra says, “Adora, are you okay?”

Her body is convulsing. She feels like she might throw up. “Fine,” Adora says--gasps really, and presses her forehead into Catra’s shoulder. The other girl huffs a laugh into her hair and rubs circles on her back.

“You always were a self sacrificing dumbass. You’re allowed to be in pain.”

“Okay,” Adora says quietly. Catra goes still beneath her. “Okay.”

“Maybe Shadow Weaver really did mess with your mind.”

“I’m that stubborn?”

“Yeah.” Catra makes a broken sound--it starts out as a laugh and ends in a sob, shaking her shoulders, pulling her against Adora. They slot together like parts in a machine; Adora’s head against her shoulder, Catra’s hands on her back. “When I saw you, I thought--I thought she was gonna--”

“What even happened?” They both turn to Shadow Weaver, who lies still on the floor. Adora looks away instantly, hating her, hating everything about her. 

“Is she dead?” she asks.

Catra shakes her head. “She’s only unconscious. I should tie her up before she’s awake. We don’t want a repeat--”

“Wait,” Adora says. Her voice comes out cracked. “Stay with me. Just for a moment longer.”

Catra goes silent. Finally, she says, “don’t worry, Adora. I’m not going anywhere.”

***

Catra calls in a few cadets to tie Shadow Weaver up. They do so without question--secretly, Adora thinks they must be glad--and then dimmises them to go put Shadow Weaver in a cell. She doesn’t move from where she’s holding Adora, chin to shoulder, chest to chest; only breathes, soft and rhythmic, and rubs circles along Adora’s back. Adora knows Catra is uncomfortable, but she can’t bring herself to move away. 

And so they stay like that, crouched and panting, until the strangled, desperate panic leaves her, a bone deep weariness in its place. It’s over. She is okay now. She doesn’t have to worry anymore.

So why won’t it stick?

“Adora,” Catra says finally. She doesn’t meet Adora’s eyes. “Did you forget anything else?”

“No. You stopped her before she could--” Adora can’t finish the sentence. “How did you know?”

“Pretty hard not to hear you screaming. And I saw that your cell was empty, so I came running. Figures that Shadow Weaver would send people after you.”

Adora makes a sound half between a laugh and a sob. “I thought it was you at first,” she admits. “When Kyle and Lonnie came, I thought you were taking me in.”

“Me?” Catra goes tense under her. Adora nods, too drowsy to notice.

“Yeah. Like, I know this wasn’t you, but I thought--” She hiccups. “I don’t know. I thought you were gonna question me or something.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Catra says. There is an odd tone to her voice.

“I know, just a thought, you can calm down--”

“I’m better than Shadow Weaver.”

It’s a protest, but it doesn’t sound angry. It feels more like a question, raw and frayed like the hem of a shirt. “I’m better than Shadow Weaver. I’m--” Catra shudders, voice strangled. She sounds as if she is reassuring herself about something she never could have considered. “I’m better than Shadow Weaver, I wouldn’t hurt you like that, I didn’t hurt you like that, I didn’t--” A strange, choking sound. “I didn’t hurt you. You left me, you hurt me, it was you--”

“Catra, calm down.” Adora reaches out, but Catra pulls her hand away. Her eyes are wide and frantic. Adora doubts she’s seeing her at all. “Hey. Catra. _Catra!_ ”

Catra pushes her off of her lap. Adora tumbles backwards, and lets out a small noise when her back hits the floor; the breath has been knocked out of her, leaving her wheezing. It’s too much combined with her already weak body, and all she can do is lie there for a moment, before she remembers the task at hand.

Catra. Adora needs to get up.

Slowly, uneasily, she rises to her feet. It’s exhausting to move, limbs folding like paper under her, and she has to cough her way through it. Luckily, Catra hasn’t moved yet: she is still standing right there, shuddering. She looks like she might blow away at the slightest gust of wind.

“Catra,” Adora repeats. Catra doesn’t seem to hear her. She has one hand in her hair, which she tugs at; tumbles backwards and gasps. She looks like she’s breaking. Falling apart, malfunctioning: coming undone before Adora’s eyes. 

“I didn’t do it, I didn’t, I’m better than her.” She steps backwards. Her eyes move from left to right like a pendulum. “Adora, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Catra turns on her heel and runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: shadow weaver ties adora up and tries to erase her memory and implant new ones. (she fails, obviously.)
> 
> okay, so, who's ready to fight shadow weaver with me?

**Author's Note:**

> edits have been made as of july 15. the next chapter will be coming out in a few days. expect this to be a wip with a bad updating schedule. comments/kudos are always appreciated. visit me on tumblr:
> 
> https://hellcatspangledshalalala.tumblr.com


End file.
